


Watercolor Paints

by man_of_vibranium (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, One Shot, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 22:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15350172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/man_of_vibranium
Summary: You hate the city.  110% of your pent-up, unbridled rage is aimed at NYC in the form of a frustrated glare, every time you encounter something mildly inconveniencing.  In response to your (probably overstated) disdain, the City that Never Sleeps throws one of its very own superheroes at you.  What are you gonna do?  Flip the city off?





	Watercolor Paints

**Author's Note:**

> Here goes my first fic on here. I'm pretty pumped and fairly optimistic, so I hope you guys enjoy it :)

Another day down; another day nearer to getting out of this hell hole.

You sighed, standing on the roof of your building, staring out at the sun setting behind that scenic city skyline.  You hated it.  Everything about the city was abhorrent to you: the noise, the crowds, the traffic, the tourism.  Even the goddamn smell made your blood boil.  There were too many people in too small of a space for your comfort, which resulted in an incessant barrage of scenery that assaulted your over-stimulated senses.  It was __awful__.  You were counting down the days until you were graduated and college-bound.  In the early summer after your sophomore year, however, that meant over 600 days to wait.  It seemed like you would never be free from the City that Never Sleeps.

At least Queens wasn't as overpopulated as Manhattan, though.  You sighed.

From this angle, you had to admit, the city was almost beautiful.  With the wind gently tugging on the ends of your hair, distant pigeons cooing, and the sun just barely kissing the horizon, it could have been a dream.  Or a dream-turned-nightmare, as you knew, for the wind would begin biting, the pigeons would seek refuge from the dark, and the sun would dip out of the sky.  It was calm before the storm, as if the metropolis was putting on this display to appease you.

It wasn't working.  You had come up here to blow off steam, and some picturesque view wasn't going to stop your brooding.

It was your dad again.  He had hit a little too close to home in regards to school.  He had told you, once upon a time, that your best would be good enough for him, as long as you were trying.  Several middle school report cards later, and you had raised his expectations.  When you began taking more advanced classes in high school, your first B had clearly been a disappointment; your father's tight-lipped congratulations told you that much.  You had been careful since then, taking extra time to learn and practice any and all new material.  But you had had some trouble -- math, in particular, being the culprit.

You had brought home a C on your last report card, which had caused the fight that made you climb out of the fire escape and seek refuge on the roof.  He said that you weren't trying.  He said that you were slacking.  He said that you weren't studying enough.  He said that your friends were a distraction.  You couldn't bear to tell him that you were trying your hardest, that you just didn't have the brain for math.  It was easier for you to run away and wallow in your self-pity than to make him realize that there wasn't an excuse for your grade; your best _was_ a C.

So here you stood.  Miserable and alone.  Growing steadily colder while the sun slipped away.  Stuck in a city that you loathed.  Another day down; another day nearer to getting out of this hell hole.

The city scape was darkening significantly now, the lights from the masses of buildings surrounding you flickering on, trying to fill the sudden blackness.  You bit your cheek, debating whether or not to crawl back inside your apartment.  Your decision was made for you, however, when a car horn blared from below you, resulting in several enraged shouts.  Jumping from the commotion, you stepped away from the waist-high roof ledge, mentally preparing yourself for the daunting task of pretzeling yourself to get back through your widow.  Whether lucky for you or not, you never got the chance to make that journey.

Instead, something warm and hard flew out of that darkness, striking you square in the torso and laying you out on the uneven concrete.  You knew it was a person by the surprised "oof" that ensued your collision.  You experienced momentary relief in your chest, as their momentum caused them to tumble off of you and land somewhere on the roof behind your head.  But, with a start, you realized that you had been standing at the roof's edge; there was no roof behind your head.

Coughing from having the wind knocked out of you, that incessant itch in your lungs refusing to subside, you scrambled over to the ledge, surveying the alleyway below.

"Hello?" you wheezed into the night, praying that the person had survived the fall -- your building was eight floors tall, after all.

A weak panting was the only sound that replied.  Until, of course, two looming eyes bugged out of the darkness, appearing directly in front of your nose.  "Hey," they groaned.

"Holy hell!" you yelped, scrambling back from the edge, heart pounding so incredibly loudly in your ears.

A humanoid form dragged itself over the lip of the building, flopping over at your feet.  "That's what I thought, too," it said, voiced strained.

"What the _fuck_ \-- sorry -- _who_ the fuck are you?" you demanded, pulling your feet in and jumping to a standing position.

It's head lolled towards you.  You could almost see the reproachful look in its unusually large eyes.  "I'm Spider-Man," he stated simply.

Your brain flew into overdrive, trying to pin down who this creature was.  Spider-Man.  The Spider-Man.  The Amazing Spider-Man.  Your friendly neighborhood -- "Oh, _shit_."

"What's with all the cursing?" Spider-Man laughed, which rapidly became a horrid hacking cough.

"I dunno, I guess I'm just a little surprised to see -- wait, are you fucking _hurt_?"

In the dim light from the street lamps below, you could make out the outline of his hand waving you off.  "Nah.  I'm fine.  Look, see?"  He struggled to sit up.  "I'm fine.  Totally, perfectly --"  He emitted a whining sound that made your stomach clench.  "Fuck," he moaned, collapsing into his back.

"What's with all the cursing?" you mocked, approaching him slowly and dropping to your knees beside him.  Your skin suddenly seemed to become slick.  "Hold on, let me just --"  You fished your phone out of your back pocket, quickly unlocking it and flicking the flashlight on.  "There we go.  OH MY GOD!"

You almost threw up, right then and there.  The Spider-Man was red.  And not your-friendly-neighborhood-superhero's-suit red.  Blood red.  A _lot_ of him was blood red.

"What did you do?!" you seemed to chastise him, pressing a hand over your mouth.

His breathing was ragged.  "Saving the day," the Spider-Man snickered.  "Guess I came out worse for wear, huh?"

"Do not even joke with me right now, Mister," you reprimanded.  "You can't even breath right, and you're cracking jokes?  Not cool, man!  In fact, let me just. . ."

You laid your phone down, flashlight up, so that you could see what you were doing.

Carefully, so as not to cause the injured hero more strife, you placed both hands on his neck, feeling around for the edge of his mask.  You knew there was one.  There had to be one, right?

"W-what are you doing?" he panicked, grabbing your wrists and trying to push you away.

"Calm down, dude," you reassured him none too kindly.  "I just want to get this thing off your mouth.  You'll be able to breath better, all right?"

The Spider-Man refused to relinquish his grip -- which, you had to admit, made your heart stutter -- but allowed you to continue fingering around for that line of fabric.  Finally managing to hook one finger under it, you gently slipped all of your fingertips under the mask and moved it upwards.  You could feel the Spider-Man tense beside you.

"Relax, Spider-Dork, you're just going to make the bleeding worse," you cooed, hoping that the nickname would make him more at ease.

With his mask successfully folded up over his mouth and nose, the stranger once again began pushing you away.  His jaw was clenched under your hands -- whether from pain or fright, you didn't know.

"Is that better?"

A stiff nod.

"Okay."  You mentally prepared yourself for the next step.  "Okay.  I'm gonna need you to do something for me.  It looks like you have a few fairly deep scratches on your shoulder, but those should be okay with some stitches."  You saw him wince.  "Not from me, though, don't worry.  Your abdomen, on the other hand. . .  There's a pretty big gash on your side, fam.  It's bleeding kind of a lot.  I'm going to go get some medical supplies, but I need you to put pressure on it while I'm gone.  Okay?"

He nodded again, moving his hands uncertainly to his right side.

"Like this."

Holding your breath, you took his gloved hands and guided them to the area just above his hip, where a deep slash cut into his flesh.  You pushed his hands onto his skin there, pressing on top of them gingerly.  He made that same moaning cry from earlier, sucking on his front teeth.

"Oh, god that hurts.  That hurts so fucking much.  _Fuck_."

Your heart stopped in your chest.  You thought you recognized the voice.  But it couldn't --

"Please hurry, (Y/N), holy hell.  It burns."  His all too familiar voice was cracking.  The Spider-Man was shaking like a leaf.  "I don't know if I can do this for very long."

"Okay," your shocked whisper answered.  "Okay."  Louder this time.

You were sure it was him; there was no mistaking it.  How else could he have known your name?  You shook your head.  This wasn't happening.  It _couldn't_.   But your gut knew it to be true.  One of your best friends was the Spider-Man.  One of your best friends was sneaking out to throw himself into dangerous situations every night.  One of your best friends had been sacrificing himself for the city, while everyone slept.  One of your best friends was laying on your roof, crying, with blood seeping out of him.

"Oh, Jesus," you whispered, horrified, staring at your impossibly red hands.

"(Y/N)!" he pleaded.  He was close to screaming now.

That pain-soaked cry was enough to snap you out of your daze.  You sprinted across the roof, careened down the fire escape, and flew through your widow.  It was a race against time to reach your bathroom and collect every bottle, tube, and package you could get your hands on.  All the while, your vision was tainted with a mangled and bloodied Peter Parker, lying on the roof above you, his chest refusing to rise.  And it was your fault.

You had made it halfway out your window when you heard it: footsteps.

"(Y/N)?"  It was your dad.  "Is that you making all that racket?"

You mentally cursed yourself, launching yourself back into your room and stowing your medical supplies under your pillow.  "Yeah!"  Think fast, think fast, think fast.  Aha!

 _Thump_.  _Thump_.  _Thump_.  _Click_.  "Is everything all right in here?"  Your dad stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a sour expression.

"Peachy keen!" you squeaked from beside your oh-so-conveniently-placed easel.  A set of watercolor paints was clutched in your shaking hand.

"(Y/N)!" you father exclaimed, staring at the red stains spread across your hands, knees, and lap.  "What happened?"

"Oh, just some water colors," you explained, albeit poorly, waving your pallet.  "Got a little caught up in my work, I guess."

Your father gave you a stern look.  "Are you sure that's what this is?"

You nodded, an innocent smile curling across your features.  "Of course.  What else would it be?"

He looked you over again and scanned the room.  "Okay.  I believe you."  His lip twitched.  "I want to see that painting when you're done, though."

You nodded eagerly, mouth stretched painfully tight in a false grin.  He left without a sound, thankfully closing the door as he went.  Five seconds.  Ten.  You waited patiently for him to lose interest in you.  Twenty-five.  Thirty seconds.  You were clear.

In a blur, you gathered your supplies and rapidly mounted the fire escape.  Please be okay.  Please be okay.  Please just be an ounce of okay.

When you skidded to a stop next to him, several packages clattering onto the cement, you could immediately discern how bad of a shape Peter was in.  His his hands were still clamped over the wound in his side, but he wasn't complaining anymore, and his breathing was coming in more ragged pants.

"Peter," you hissed, tapping his cheek.  No response.  Determined to rouse him, you whipped off his mask, casting it somewhere into the darkness.  He blinked up at you in horror.

"Petey, don't freak out," you warned him.  "I knew it was you before I took that damned thing off."

His faced relaxed minimally.  "You know who I am?  **How** **sad.  It appears I have to kill you now** ," he jested.

"Oh, fuck off," you groaned, shoving a hand towel into his, well, hands.  "Push that on the gash.  It should help."

He did as he was told obediently.   Moving efficiently to his shoulder, wasting no time, you cleaned his cuts with antiseptic, then stuck the claw marks raked through his skin back together with butterfly stitches.  Peter hissed though his teeth every so often.

"How did you do this, Pete?" you inquired softly.

His eyes were closed now.  "Saw some shady weapons deal and thought I should check it out.  Glad I did.  They weren't regular guns, (Y/N)."  His eyelids shot open.  "They had some sort of alien technology; I know it.  They were like lightsabers, but gun versions, you know?  The criminals didn't really like that I was there, and they shot at me.  One grazed me, obviously."

"And these?" you brushed your fingers over his now bandaged shoulder.

"A weird bird guy.  I think he was working with the weapons dealers.  He picked me up, and when I tried to get free, he held on tighter.  Ended up dropping me in a lake.  Thank god Mr. Stark put a heater in my suit.  Speaking of which, he's going to kill me. . .  Hey, it's okay, don't cry."

You didn't realized tears were rolling down your cheeks until Peter reached up to brush them away.  You swatted at his arm, shifting to kneel at his injured side.

"I'm very angry at you, Peter Parker," you announced through gritted teeth, taking back the towel and beginning to dab at the gash.  You were grateful to find that the bleeding had mostly stopped.  "I can't believe you would go around in spandex and fight crime without telling anyone."  Peter opened his mouth to interject, but you kept going.  "You could have been involved in some serious shit!  You could have been gravely injured!  You could have _died_!"  You glared down at your hands.  "YOU ALMOST DID DIE!  If I wasn't here to help you when you flat-fuck-fell out here, you would be laid out, eyes glazed over, _dead as a door nail_."

A convulsion consumed you as you attempted to keep your sobbing to a minimum.  You tossed the  bloody towel away, reaching for more butterfly stitches.  Upon ripping open the package, you watched your tears drip onto Peter's torso, mingling with his blood.  The salt must have stung, but the boy didn't utter a sound.  He just watched you sadly.

"I don't want to lose you, Peter," came your watery confession.

Your hands flew over his gash, cleaning, mending, and taping gauze pads over the area.  You couldn't look at him.  You were so angry and upset and worried and frustrated and relieved.  You could feel every emotion possible coursing through you, and you couldn't look at the person making you feel this way.

You smoothed the last piece of tape in place, only to have Peter immediately take your hand.  "You're not gonna lose me, all right?  I'm fine.  Look, see?"  He struggled into a sitting position.  "Totally, perfectly fine."

You sighed, positioning your legs around him and bending your knee upwards so that he could lean against it.  He looked at you funnily.

"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

You were greatly taken aback.  "No!  Of course not.  I wouldn't betray you like that. . .  Now that I know, though, I can't promise that I won't go off on you once and a while."  A small smile came to Peter's face.  "I just want to make sure you're safe.  This whole thing makes me so --"  Afraid.  Scared.  Terrified.  You couldn't say it.

Peter wiped a stray tear from your cheek.  "I know."

You smiled softly.

"Now I have to go paint some red watercolor thing for my dad," you groaned, rolling your puffy eyes at the thought.

"Why?" Peter asked curiously.

You held up your crimson hands.  "Wanna guess?"

He laughed.  A true, and very loud, laugh.  "You're an awful liar."

"No worse than you," you retorted playfully.  "Band practice?  _Really_?"

Peter blushed.  "Yeah, I didn't think you'd catch on --"

"One of my best friends is a first chair clarinet," you reminded him, poking his chest.  "I knew you were hiding something, and I didn't know what, but I knew better than to ask."

The corner of Peter's mouth twitched.  "Thanks, (Y/N).  Really.  For everything."

You shrugged.  "Not a problem.  Just don't go dying on me, Spider-Dweeb," you cautioned with a wink.

"God, never," Peter promised, laying his head on your shoulder.  "You would never let me hear the end of it."

You snorted, leaning over to press a firm kiss to the top of his head adoringly.  "And don't you forget it," you murmured into his hair.

Sitting there, with Peter curled by your side, and the expanse of shimmering lights below, the city suddenly didn't look so bad.  Maybe you could grow to tolerate it.  When you felt Peter melt against your body, his eyes fluttering shut, you had to grin like a maniac.

Okay, maybe you did like NYC, if only for its inhabitants.


End file.
